


And Then Start Down

by Konstantya



Series: The Edelweiss Arc [10]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Cold War, Drama, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Historical Hetalia, Moving On
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-15
Updated: 2011-10-15
Packaged: 2019-03-21 10:00:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13738476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Konstantya/pseuds/Konstantya
Summary: Cold War-era Austria needs a vacation from himself.  Spain is oblivious.  Except when he isn't.  (Implied AusHun.)





	And Then Start Down

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published (on FF.net and LJ) on October 15, 2011. Cross-posted here on February 19, 2018.
> 
> A Chinese translation of this fic can be found [here](http://aphsuez.lofter.com/post/1d5af8b0_dee735d). A German translation can be found [here](https://www.fanfiktion.de/s/55e5b7eb000418401cfaec38/3/Haus-Habsburg-Casa-de-Austria).
> 
> Time period: September/autumn-ish, 1961.

 

Upon pulling up in front of the house, Austria can't help but double check the address, as if the cabbie might have gotten the number wrong. He didn't, and the next moment sees the man getting out of the driver's seat and opening the trunk.

With a breath, Austria grabs his violin and exits the taxi. The driver plants his suitcase on the ground next to him, and Austria thanks him, his Spanish rusty and heavily accented. He pulls out his wallet, pays the fare, and the man doffs his cap before sliding back behind the wheel. Austria looks up at his destination and is dully aware of the cab driving away, the noise of the engine fading from ear.

He triple checks the address, then looks back at the façade. Spain's house. Gathering his courage, he picks up his luggage and goes up the walk.

He has not seen him in years—decades—(centuries?)—and Austria admits to being a little apprehensive about the visit. They were once close, true—but that was a very long time ago, and neither of them are the nations they used to be.

Still, at least Spain is somewhat removed from this bizarre, constant tension they call a 'cold war.' At least memories of him are only accompanied by the dull, nostalgic ache for the power and glory they amassed in their youth. At least their relationship didn't end in a crippling divorce.

Austria huffs at his hesitance and swiftly jabs the buzzer with his thumb. A moment later, there is a lazy padding of feet, and then the door swings open.

Spain looks as if he just woke up from a nap not five minutes prior—which, if Spain is anything like he used to be, is probably what actually happened. He looks at Austria's formal posture and impeccable dress, and laughs good-naturedly. "You're almost as bad as Germany," he says, then slaps his hand around his shoulders and ushers him in. "Come in, come in!"

Austria does so, feeling rather uncomfortable with the physical friendliness. Spain is almost as bad as Italy Veneziano.

Spain's house is warm and mellow, all reds and golds, rounded archways and wrought iron. Most of the windows are open, and a cool breeze filters through.

"Here, I'll show you to the guest room!" He takes the suitcase from Austria and gestures for him to follow up the stairs. "How was the train ride?"

"Long. But not altogether unpleasant."

"I'm sorry again I couldn't meet you at the station. I've gotten so busy lately! It's good, don't get me wrong, but makes for a tight schedule. I'm actually really glad for the visit—it's an excuse for my boss to go easy on me for a few days. Speaking of which, I'm supposed to reimburse you for the taxi, so remind me later, okay?"

"Sure," Austria says, rather absently.

"I have to say, it was a bit of a surprise to get a call from you. What brought on the visit?"

Austria resists the urge to fidget with his instrument case. "I was due for a holiday. And I understand you're becoming quite the tourist destination."

Spain beams a grin back at him. "The economy's finally being kind to me! It's a relief, let me tell you. I was finally able to do a bunch of repairs around the house. Would you believe I had a hole in my roof since '37 and it took me twenty years to get it fixed? Entertaining was next to impossible. Not that I was really talking to anyone at the time…" he trails off thoughtfully. "Hey! I just thought—you're the first to use this since I remodeled!"

The guest room is much like the rest of the house, and much like Spain, himself: warm and bright and inviting—and, perhaps most importantly, different. Vienna is not so balmy as Madrid, and Austria has lately found that too many of his windows face east. The ones here face south, towards the museum district, and far beyond that, the sea.

"It's lovely," he says, and is hardly lying. Spain sets his suitcase down on the floor, and Austria moves toward it, laying it flat and crouching down beside it.

"Oh, come on. Unpack later, why don't you?" Spain almost whines, petulantly, like he would when Austria would insist on another _allemande_ instead of a _flamenco_. It is enough that Austria pauses, ever so briefly, before remembering that he has a modern suitcase in front of him, that he wear modern shoes and a shirt with modern cuffs.

Austria clears his throat a little and, heedless of his host's entreaty, opens his luggage. "Personal affects can probably wait, I admit. _This,_ however, should probably not." Rising, he presents a tin. Spain blinks and pries the top off.

"I'm sorry about the lackluster presentation," Austria says, very seriously, because the jostling in his suitcase has caused the icing to get dented and smashed around the sides. "I feared that if I simply tried carrying it by itself I would risk dropping it entirely. If you have a knife, perhaps I could—"

Spain interrupts with a laugh. "Relax, will you? It'll still taste good, I'm sure." As if to prove this, he scoops some icing onto his finger and pops it into his mouth.

Austria starts, ultimately too late to save his sachertorte from being debauched even more, and with a fussy gesture, demands, "Can you at least put it on a plate?"

"Alright, alright," Spain says, dismissively waving the top of the tin and swinging towards the door. "I suppose I should offer you a drink, while I'm at it," he adds, already starting down the stairs.

Austria fumbles to close his luggage, and then, with a vexed huff, rushes to follow him. Suddenly he remembers why he had so many head-aches when the two of them were allied under Habsburg rule.

"Coffee, right?" Spain asks, when Austria joins him in the kitchen.

"Please," he says, mustering his patience, tugging his jacket straight. Spain sets some coffee on, and goes about preparing some hot chocolate for himself. "Do you have sugar and cream?" Austria asks, once his drink is ready.

Spain looks up from the cake, currently in the process of cutting it. "Oh, sure. In the fridge, and in the cupboard right next to you," he says, nodding at each respective location. Austria nods back in thanks. He pours in a dollop of cream, then reaches up for the sugar bowl. Granules stick to the outside of it, and he grimaces at the way they in turn stick to his fingers.

Spain serves up two pieces of the torte, and Austria can't help but dryly arch an eyebrow at the ample slice on the other nation's plate. "Still as greedy as ever, I see."

"And you're still as uptight as ever."

"I beg your pardon," Austria says severely, looking over in offense.

Spain laughs and sucks icing off his thumb. "Exactly! Put a couple of doublets on us, and it would be like nothing has changed."

For a terrifying moment, Austria is tempted to do just that.

He clears his throat a little and drops his gaze to the counter. "Your refrigerator would no doubt ruin the illusion," he points out, spooning sugar into his coffee with stiff concentration, and is not sure whether to be grateful or disappointed at that fact. "To say nothing of the indoor plumbing," he adds, and gives his finger-tips a quick rinse.

"It's new, you know!" Spain exclaims.

Austria blinks and looks back at the sink. "The plumbing?"

Spain grins and nods, his exuberance barely contained. "The plumbing!" Austria blinks once more. "I just got all the pipes replaced last year," Spain goes on. "Do you know how great it is to not have the ceiling leak when you flush your upstairs toilet?"

"I can imagine," Austria says, holding up his hand to ward off any more details.

Spain laughs again, and picks up his cake and chocolate. "Here, let's go out on the porch. The carnations are still in bloom."

 

\---

 

"Anyway," Spain is saying, the next day, "my boss has had me working in the factories a lot. Auto work!" he says with an incredulous grin. "Who would have thought?" Austria makes some noncommittal hum at the question, paying more attention to the scenery around him than to the words coming out of his companion's throat.

Madrid is very different from how he remembers, with its cars and skyscrapers, but the cafés are still as bustling as ever. They claim a table outside, on the patio, and order two chocolates.

Spain takes off his suit jacket before he sits, stopping at the feel of something in the pocket. He sits down, breaking into a laugh. "Oh! So that's where I put them! Here, I meant to offer these to you yesterday." He pulls out a small, rectangular carton. "Cigarette?"

They're expensive, by the look of them. Rather reluctantly, Austria declines. "No, thank you."

Spain cocks his head to the side. "I thought I heard you smoked."

"I've decided to quit."

"Ah!" He smiles and tucks them away again. "And how's that going for you?"

Austria thinks, then shrugs. "The piano gets more abuse," he admits. He actually had to give his violin a respite when he first cut back—he was breaking too many strings.

Spain laughs sympathetically. "I tried giving up hot chocolate for Lent once, and went through two sets of guitar strings before our savior rose."

Austria is tempted to point out that chocolate is not quite as addicting as nicotine, but decides it isn't worth his time. This is Spain, after all. For all Austria knows, he might very well ingest enough chocolate to feel the caffeine withdrawal when without.

Their chocolate arrives, delivered by a petite young woman with dark eyes and short hair. Spain smiles at her, all white teeth and warm lips. _"Gracias,"_ he says, and she smiles back, a pretty blush coloring her cheeks.

"Let me know if you need anything," she says, coquettishly, and Spain assures her with a charming grin that they will. She bustles off, glancing coyly back over her shoulder, and Spain cranes his head around to follow her figure, until she disappears inside.

"Ahh," he sighs, wistfully, turning back around. Austria gives him a dry, half-lidded look. Spain either ignores it or doesn't notice it altogether, and takes a thoughtful drink of chocolate. "You know, that's something you might think about."

Austria sets his mug down and dabs his napkin to his mouth. "What?"

"A fling."

His eyebrow quirks sharply and disapprovingly behind his glasses. "I'm not France."

"I don't mean all the shameless stuff," Spain explains merrily—and loudly. Austria looks away uncomfortably, as if to dissociate himself from his table-mate to anyone who might be watching.

"Though," he hears Spain amend, contemplatively, "there's a time and place for that, too…"

Austria grimaces awkwardly, and has the sneaking suspicion he's blushing profusely. He tries to find something cute and innocent on the street. Like a puppy or a balloon. In hindsight, maybe he should have taken a cigarette or two when they were offered. He could use one right now. Dolefully, he swirls his chocolate, as if this will help.

Spain gaily goes on, oblivious to his companion's discomfort: "The world is changing! Women are getting all into that no-strings-attached stuff. And I'm sure _some_ of them find German to be a sexy language."

Austria's fingers stiffen around his mug. He used to be married to one of said women.

Spain suddenly turns serious and leans forward, tugging Austria's sleeve to get his attention. "Look, all I'm saying is, you seem to be really down."

"I border the Iron Curtain," Austria reminds him, maybe a little coldly.

"Huh?" Spain says, confused. "Oh! Right! Cold War."

Austria resists the urge to derisively roll his eyes and instead takes a long breath.

"Well, even so," Spain goes on, "there's something to be said for a nice distraction, you know? And you're the tall, dapper foreigner over here, don't forget." His eyes all but twinkle and his mouth tilts into a roguish half-smile. Austria swallows uncomfortably.

"I'll think about it," he relinquishes on a low mutter, mostly just to placate his host. He takes a drink, as if to hide behind the mug. Upon lowering his hand, he clears his throat and asks, "How's Romano these days?" Anyone else might find it a terribly transparent attempt to change the subject, but Spain is oblivious. He simply laughs and leans back in his seat.

"Like Romano," he says. "He constantly complains, but still comes to visit. You know, just the other day he called me up for a picnic…"

The day passes easily with Spain's trivial stories, and though Austria cares not enough to pay attention, he cares enough to be grateful.

 

\---

 

The day after that, they drive out to the countryside. Spain extols the virtues of the SEAT 600, and Austria looks for a likely tree to spend the afternoon under. Eventually they find one, at the base of a hill, and Spain pulls off to the side of the road.

"It's too windy for sheet music," Spain observes, once they exit the car. As if on cue, a breeze blows up.

Austria nods thoughtfully, trying to brush his hair back into place, and looks at the landscape. The sky is a radiant azure, the wheat fields golden, and Austria finds he has to squint at the bright brilliance of it all. He once had a pair of tinted pince-nez, and wonders if it isn't about time he looked into modern sunglasses.

"I suppose we'll have to play from memory," he says.

"Works for me." Spain opens the back door and swings his guitar case out. Austria ducks his head in, reaching for the small stool he insisted on. Peering at the sky again, he thinks twice and sheds his jacket. Spain whistles suggestively, and Austria throws him a dry look before he shuts the car door.

They walk down the hill and settle near the tree trunk. Leaves rustle above them, accompanied by the occasional chirping of birds. Spain plops himself on the ground and sets about to tuning. "Cavalli?" he asks, because his repertoire used to be a favorite of theirs.

Austria pauses in the middle of trying to position the stool. Spain looks up curiously. "You don't remember?" he asks.

Thoughtfully, Austria sits. "No…I do," he says, because it's so very true. He looks at his violin, then the countryside, then the car at the top of the hill—until finally looking back at his musical companion, his voice sure. "But I want something different."

"Different, huh?" Spain's mouth quirks, and his green eyes spark mischievously. "Could be dangerous," he says, brandishing his guitar. "You sure you'll be able to keep up?"

Austria levels a sideways look at the other nation, and pointedly positions his violin on his shoulder. The wind ruffles his hair, and perhaps even succeeds in making him feel a little reckless.

"Try me," he says, and Spain grins like the sun.

At the end of the day, he contests that Austria doesn't play a half-bad tango.

 

\---

 

At the end of the visit, Spain sees Austria to the station. They wait on the platform, Spain's hands slung lazily in his pockets, Austria's occupied with his violin.

"Don't like traveling by train?" Spain suddenly asks.

Austria jerks his head over. "I'm sorry?"

"Your hand," he says, pointing. Austria looks down and notices his thumb is worrying the handle of his instrument case. Feeling very self-conscious, he wraps it over his other fingers and makes sure to hold it there.

"Apprehensive, I suppose," he admits at length, his head forward once more. His eyes focus pensively on the tracks. "I've had a lovely time. I don't know if I'm ready to leave, just yet."

Spain laughs at his somber tone. "You can always come again!" he says, gesturing to the station. Austria nods absently, barely consoled.

The train pulls up, bringing a rush of air with it and sending their hair into wild flutters. Austria brushes his back into place, perhaps putting more effort into the action than entirely necessary. "Well," he says, taking a bracing breath, shaking Spain's hand, "thank you again for the visit." Spain nods, and Austria picks up his suitcase and starts towards the door.

"It's not so bad, you know," Spain suddenly calls, "once you get used to it." Austria stops on the threshold to shoot him a confused look, and Spain smiles back, perhaps self-deprecatingly. "At least you don't have an entire armada at the bottom of the sea."

Austria blinks, and looks at the nation who has been his companion these past few days, who is as comfortable in sandals and slacks as he ever was in slippers and hose. "Spain…" he says, trying to search for the right words. All that comes out is a simple, sincere, _"Gracias."_

Spain grins. _"Bitte schön."_ His pronunciation is as terrible as ever, and for some reason, Austria finds that fact comforting and reassuring.

 

\---

 

Austria arrives in Vienna just as the sun is setting. The edelweiss in his garden bob contentedly with the cool breeze, almost as if welcoming him back. Once inside, Austria turns on his lights, sets his luggage down, looks around his impeccably arranged house, and in a fit of spontaneity, goes back outside and clips a handful of flowers.

He places them in a small vase, then sets it on his dining table. Thinking twice, he puts a coaster underneath. Spain would laugh at that detail, and the thought brings a wry smile to his lips.

That evening, after making himself a small dinner, Austria unpacks, then retires to his study. He pulls out the violin he traveled with and gives it a thorough inspection. Satisfied that it suffered no damage from the journey, he props it against his leg and thoughtfully plucks at the strings. A high-pitched imitation of a guitar.

Austria leans back in his chair and looks at his study, the stark ivory walls. Perhaps they are due for a change. He cocks his head to consider this. Perhaps…a burgundy. That would complement the rich wood of his stringed instruments, the black sheen of his piano, the bright metal of the woodwinds. And he will do the painting himself, he thinks. In the unlikely event he makes a mess, he can afford to be dirty for an afternoon or two.

In the solitude of his house, Austria breathes. Easily.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> -Spain had a really rough time in the first half of the 20th century. Political upheaval, the Great Depression, civil war, fascist dictatorship, Axis sympathizer (and consequently no friend of the Allies when the war ended), cultural and economic isolation—you know, the works. However, despite being fascist, Spain was very anti-communist, which eventually endeared it to America and its Western European neighbors. This culminated in the Spanish Miracle (or, the _Desarrollo_ ) which was an economic boom that lasted from 1959 to 1973. Industry flourished, and Spain became _the_ vacation spot for many Europeans.
> 
> -The SEAT 600 was a Spanish car made from 1957-1973. Relatively inexpensive and tremendously popular, its production helped kick-start the Miracle, and it later became something of an icon of the era.
> 
> -Francesco Cavalli (1602-1676) was an Italian composer of the early Baroque era.
> 
> - _"Gracias"_ and _"Bitte schön"_ : "Thank you" and "You're welcome" in Spanish and German, respectively.
> 
>  
> 
> A/N: Oh, man. These guys are so great together. They're like the Odd Couple. Like, how they actually manage to get along as well as they do is beyond me, but they do it.


End file.
